


the things we've come to find

by paintstroke



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Dreams, Gen, Gross Imagery, Horror, Lovecraftian, Trombley POV, Trombley/Walt if you squint, Unsettling, cosmic horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28075632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintstroke/pseuds/paintstroke
Summary: Reaching tactical assembly area Paige should have been the end of their tour. Trombley also should have known better than to believe the rumor that Bravo Two was heading home.“Might help if they gave us something more to go on than just fucking coordinates,” Corporal Person said from the driver’s seat, sounding disturbingly reasonable in his bitterness. “Type of weapon, if it was a crash or explosion, if we’re looking for an impact crater or a hidden weapons stash…”Sergeant Colbert didn’t shift from where he was covering his sector. “I know it’s shocking when they actually send us out to do reconnaissance, Ray, but try to remember what we actually trained for.”
Relationships: James Trombley & Walt Hasser
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: Heavy Artillery Holiday Exchange 2020





	the things we've come to find

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kathikon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathikon/gifts).



  


* * *

  


“We are approaching the target,” Sergeant Colbert announced in a clipped voice as he listened to his headset. 

Trombley forced himself more upright, shifting in his seat to try to counteract the numbness in his thighs. Since they’d left the road they’d been moving at even more of a crawl than usual and the lull of watching for non-existent signs of movement and picking out clumps of grass to focus on was a sort of self-hypnosis. 

He adjusted the barrel of his SAW, hitching it up against the edge of the window. Nothing changed in the scenery in his sector. 

“See anything, Walt?” Brad shouted. Apparently not much had changed out ahead, either.

“Not yet!” Walt hollered back, his voice half-stolen by the wind and the growl of the vehicle as it chewed through the sand. Trombley stared out at his sector. 

“Might help if they gave us something more to go on than just fucking coordinates,” Corporal Person said from the driver’s seat, sounding disturbingly reasonable in his bitterness. “Type of weapon, if it was a crash or explosion, if we’re looking for an impact crater or a hidden weapons stash…”

Sergeant Colbert didn’t shift from where he was staring out his window. “I know it’s shocking when they actually send us out to do reconnaissance, Ray, but try to remember what we actually trained for.”

  


* * *

  


There was only one area of high ground in the general vicinity of the target. Sergeant Colbert guided Corporal Person towards it. “So we’ll be fucking silhouetted, great,” Person grumbled, not quite low enough to be under his breath. 

Trombley wouldn’t mind. At least if they were shot at they’d have something to do. It had felt like hours of driving with nothing to dull the monotony of the desert. 

Hitman Two Bravo pulled up on their right. 

The tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine permeated the silence. Trombley shifted his weight. He didn’t want to complain about the seat, not when he knew other marines were sitting on crates and jammed on the car floor of other vehicles, but he was going numb. And worse than that, he was bored.

“Nothing on the comms,” Sergeant Colbert said. He twisted around so he could take in the vehicle with a glance. “Stay up on the 19, Walt.” He got out. 

Trombley watched through Colbert’s window as a familiar shape approached. Lieutenant Fick. Nothing new to see the officer instead of getting a radio command, though this time he lacked his typical Gunny-sized shadow.

Corporal Person prodded at the dials of their radio box. 

Trombley hitched his weight to the side. He scraped his helmet along the side of the window’s edge, trying to get a comfortable lean where it looked like he was still watching his sector. He should have brought sunglasses. 

He jerked straighter when the Lieutenant came around to his side of the car. Fick didn’t spare the backseat a glance. He reached through the front window, touching Person’s shoulder. “Ray, I need your expertise.”

“Knew you’d trade up one day,” Person said with a smirk, flipping down his sunglasses and happily pulling the strap of his M4 across his shoulder. “Big Gay Brad will be heartbroken.”

“Ray…” Colbert’s tone promised a painful death. 

The Lieutenant looked at Person with infinite patience and tight lips. “I hate to disappoint you. This task involves radio work only.”

Trombley watched the back of Person’s head as the Corporal nodded and tucked a pencil from the dash into his flak vest, suddenly more serious. “Hang on, we’ve got some spare parts in the back.” Person pushed the dash radio receiver at Trombley.

Trombley shifted the horn to his ear. Even the static seemed subdued. As Corporal Person and the Lieutenant walked off, he wondered if the radio silence was everyone else being just as bored or if it was something more.

  


* * *

  


Trombley started to wonder if they were being punished. They languished in the heat for hours, before the Lieutenant made the call to move forward with the search, despite the lack of confirmation.

Colbert led a wedge of marines into the desert, maintaining a careful dispersion. They had a grid search to do, moving slowly over the exposed terrain. Trombley watched them leave, his gaze hungry. He wanted to be a part of them. He wanted to _do_ something, even if it was just a slow search to try to figure out what the interpreters had intercepted on the radios. Something about weapons, something dangerous. 

But the entire AO was abandoned, from what he could tell. It felt empty. 

They didn’t have to be ready to move, but they were stuck with the Humvee. While Hasser dutifully kept his hands on the MK-19, Trombley unfurled the cammie netting and turned the Humvee into one of a string of Humvee-shaped tents along the ridge. 

Trombley joined Hasser atop the vehicle when the line of marines got further out. With their vantage point, they could see in all directions. The slight wind was erasing their tire tracks. Nothing else changed. Trombley swiveled the gun and tried to imagine what they were there for. 

They waited. 

And waited. 

Hasser let out a sigh of relief when the formations of marines in the search turned around. 

“Thought there’d be mines or something,” he admitted. “Something out here definitely gives me the creeps.”

Trombley raised his eyebrows and looked at Hasser, putting his skepticism into his expression and biting back a snide comment.

“Don’t you feel it?” Hasser asked. He peeled back the sleeve of his MOPP suit, showing his bare arm to Trombley. The fine blond hairs were raised on goose-pimpled flesh, glowing white when they caught the bright sunlight — well, where they weren’t smudged with charcoal dust. “Something here just seems… off. It’s like something is watching.”

Trombley shrugged and lifted the binoculars. “Seems pretty empty out here to me.”

  


* * *

  


“Maybe he specified the wrong grid zone, sir” Sergeant Colbert said to the Lieutenant. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Trombley turned when he heard that. The Captain’s mistakes had been notorious. He watched Sergeant Colbert carefully. 

Lieutenant Fick ignored the potential disrespect in the words — or at least, he didn’t reprimand Sergeant Colbert. Trombley absorbed that, too. There had been a gradual shift in the officer’s deportment. 

“Can you patch me through to Hitman?” Fick asked, gesturing to the silent radio Trombley had been babysitting. Trombley glanced at the cheat sheet on the windshield, making sure he had the channel right before he passed the headset to the Lieutenant. 

Trombley listened to the Lieutenant fail to get an answer. 

“Did anything come through while we were gone?” The Lieutenant looked at him, as if Trombley was as dumb as Corporal Person and might have forgotten to pass along important information. 

“No, sir,” Trombley said. 

Fick shook his head once and passed the handset back to Trombley. “Must be interference somewhere. I’ll see if Ray made any progress at the CP.” For a brief moment, Fick’s hand was warm on his shoulder, offering silent encouragement.

Trombley didn’t understand why Fick thought he cared. Their shitty radios were always broken. He dutifully tucked the handset into his vest and leaned back against the seat, trying to find a comfortable enough angle to nap at.

  


* * *

  


By dusk, an unease had settled firmly over their Humvee. 

Now the Blue Force Tracker refused to update. Sergeant Colbert flipped through the various maps, each transition taking longer as the screen glitched in green and pink streaks. Despite the lack of other markers, Trombley watched Colbert type message after message. They disappeared from the side of the screen, unanswered. 

Lovell ducked under their cammie net. “Brad, the LT wants all team leaders by his victor.”

Sergeant Colbert nodded, turned to Corporal Person. “About time,” he muttered. Corporal Person shrugged, from where he was carefully inspecting their own radio guts in the red glow of his headlamp. Colbert followed Lovell, and Trombley idly watched their silhouettes through the netting, the figures distorted. 

Everyone seemed a bit off, here. 

He didn’t get it. It was just one more mistake somewhere up the chain of command. Nothing unusual. 

Nothing out of the ordinary.

  


* * *

  


“We’re going to dig in for the night,” Sergeant Colbert announced when he returned.

Trombley gave a short, high laugh. Of course they were. They’d found nothing; they better guard that carefully. He swung out of the vehicle, searching for his pickax and e-tool. 

“Something about this doesn’t feel right,” Colbert murmured, the same quiet under-his-breath voice that he sang in. Trombley guessed the comment was just meant for Person so he didn’t acknowledge it. To him, it felt _just_ like the fucking USMC, keeping them out there at an empty target area, away from the action. 

Their perimeter was sparse with just their platoon circled up. It made it feel like yet another drill, just some sort of pointless training exercise to keep them doing busy work. This wasn’t why he’d wanted to join the recon force. Trombley thought the others felt the same way, but their resignation was buried under professional demeanors. He tried to copy them, but sometimes, pretending that this bullshit was SOP was too much. 

“Shouldn’t we go back?” Trombley asked, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. 

“Trombley, right now the USMC knows where we are. If we attempt to egress, we will run out of fuel somewhere in the desert. I think the airheads have bigger things to worry about.”

“But won’t they see us on your tracker?”

He could see the slight jump in the tendon of Sergeant Colbert’s neck as he clenched his teeth, but only because Trombley was watching. “If it was working,” Colbert said easily. If Trombley had just been listening, he’d have sworn that Colbert was unconcerned. The Sergeant went back to digging his hole. Just another night.

As expected, the ground was rocky and difficult. He lifted his head and rubbed at the sweat on his forehead, grateful for the cammie nets cutting the last glare of the setting sun. After weeks of this, he and Hasser settled into a routine. Trombley broke the ground with his pickax. Beside him, he listened to the rhythmic swing of Hasser’s e-tool, clearing away the loosened dirt and rocks. 

The routine was almost comforting.

  


* * *

  


In his dreams, Trombley walked down the staircase. The steps were incredibly steep and almost too narrow to hold his feet, as if they’d been built for something other than human. It made his steps awkward. There was no way to sneak on the steps, no way to be graceful. A fall would be lethal. 

But he had to move forward, each foot stretching forward into the pitch black space, trying to find the next thin ledge by feel alone. Every step felt like it could be the last, as if the next time he wouldn’t find the support. He tensed for the drop.

Eventually, he could tell by the change in the echoes that the narrow staircase was going to end. He tested each narrow ledge, hand out on the smooth featureless wall beside him. 

He reached a flat floor where the walls stretched away. The darkness was still absolute. All he knew was what his fingertips could reach. His own breathing was loud in his ears, a counterpoint to the dull rush of his own heartbeat. His body made the only sounds in the space. It must be a large space, a cavern of some sort, immense and intimidating and imposing. Shapes seemed to move in the dark, too close to his face, but when he reached out, there was nothing within arms’ reach. Maybe another trick of the lack of light. After all, in absolute darkness, if you moved your hand in front of your face, your brain fills in the expected shapes of fingers, interpolating movement your retina couldn’t actually detect. 

A sense of foreboding scratched at his curiosity, but it was distant. Easy to ignore. He wasn’t like the others. Detached from any sensation of fear, he stepped forward, losing the tether of the wall, losing himself in that endless space.

  


* * *

  


“Trombley.” Sergeant Colbert’s voice cut through the dream. It was followed by a gentle shake of his shoulder. 

Trombley’s hands curled around his SAW. Back before he enlisted someone shaking him awake would have sent a surge of adrenaline through his system. Not anymore. He was numb to it all. He dragged himself to something resembling wakefulness. Colbert lifted a thumb, pointing above him, his gesture barely visible in the dark. His turn to take watch. 

The Sergeant moved to the next grave. Evidently he tried to wake Corporal Person in the same manner. 

Trombley yawned as Hasser climbed down from the turret. 

“See anything?” Trombley asked. He could guess the answer, but he wanted to hear someone else say it. 

“Naw.” Hasser passed him the thermals. In the night, he flashed a quick smile, a brightness of teeth only barely visible, even at arm’s length. “Maybe you’ll have more luck.”

An answering grin spread over Trombley’s face. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  


* * *

  


He wasn’t that lucky. Imagining the MK-19 blowing enemies into dust clouds only occupied the first fifteen seconds of his watch. He stared down at Hasser’s hand-drawn range card, flicking his red flashlight absently until the Sergeant snapped at him to cut it out. 

He used the thermals at sparse intervals, trying to spread out his attempts to see in the dark. Like Hasser had said, there was nothing. 

Still, he had the lingering sense of a vastness around them, a space so huge and incomprehensible that it could destroy the mind. He felt small. Insignificant. He didn’t like it. 

His thumbs caressed the trigger of the MK-19 as the minutes of his shift drained slowly away. Over the last few months he’d gotten used to the sounds of people sleeping. Enough that he was aware that tonight, something was wrong. Sergeant Colbert, who usually slept like the dead, kept turning, as if he was uneasy in his grave. Once or twice he heard Hasser make tiny sounds. Nightmares. He shifted his weight to his other hip, unsure of why the noises were unsettling rather than something to laugh at.

He swept his NVGs across the landscape, half-certain that _this_ time he’d see movement. His stomach growled. He wished he had kept his Charms. At least their slow dissolution was an indication time was actually passing and hadn’t actually frozen. 

Eventually, he copied the stillness of the stances of the other men on the guns. He could see Lilley and Manimal; but Bravo Two Three was too far for him to tell who was on their gun. Lilley was slouched against the exposed roll bar. No one had caught sight of anything. 

And yet, the faint prickle at the back of his neck made him wonder if there was something out there in the darkness, unmoving, watching them. 

Maybe Hasser’s earlier intuition had been right.

  


* * *

  


The feeling of his feet hitting the ground was a relief. “NVGs are up top,” Trombley said as he passed Hasser. 

The look on Hasser’s face stopped him before he could drop into his grave and pass out. 

It wasn’t his business. Still, something made Trombley step in front of Hasser. “You alright?”

Hasser glanced over Trombley’s shoulder where Trombley could hear Sergeant Colbert and Corporal Person talking in low voices as they messed with something in the front seat of the Humvee. They weren’t paying attention to their gunners. 

Hasser forced a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Just… didn’t sleep well.” He ran a hand through his hair before he pulled on his Kevlar. “I hate that feeling of standing in the dark, knowing there’s something out there…”

A chill like icy fingers grabbing the back of his neck ran through Trombley. He felt rattled, thinking back to the feeling of his earlier dream. Agreeing was too much though. He hadn’t been _scared._ It hadn’t been a nightmare. It was just… there. 

“There’s nothing in the darkness,” Trombley said. “Not around here.”

Hasser’s smile was weak. “Right.”

Trombley put it out of his head and tried to make himself comfortable in the cold depression.

  


* * *

  


It wasn’t a natural cavern and this time it wasn’t dark.

Pale sinuous lines twisted across the floor. They gave off a cold luminescence, transitory, pulsing in faint waves like some deep sea creature. The light didn’t reach far but once his eyes adjusted, it was enough. In the faint glow, far overhead he could see arches supporting the curved shape of the ceiling, repeating like rib bones.

The emptiness stretched onwards. 

With each step, he set his feet down carefully, as silently as he could, trying to live up to the image of the recon marines. Silent. Deadly. The radiating, weak light followed, as if responding to the pressure of his boots. There was a structure at the far end of the vast structure, like a solid block rising from the floor. It was the only visible feature. 

It gave him the uncanny sensation of approaching an altar set at the front of a church, but this empty building was like no church he’d ever set foot in. A cathedral maybe, foreign and ancient.

The altar itself rose nearly to chest level. He reached out and touched it with the tips of his fingers. 

Abruptly, the space didn’t feel so empty anymore. 

He felt the sensation of wind across his cheek. The dead air stirred within the structure. From far away, the faint sound of a wheeze, like the pump of an old bellows. Instinctively, Trombley crouched lower, using the altar as a sort of cover. The outer shell of the structure seemed to ripple, the lines of light speeding away from Trombley and the altar. 

The air itself grew heavy, too heavy to breathe. Trombley held his breath and looked around. He didn’t see anything clearly, but caught glimpses of movement out of the corner of his eye. Large shapes curled in midair, slipping over themselves. When the light hit them he saw the pale, shiny sacks like entrails, half translucent. Like sea creatures. Or organs. When he turned there was nothing there.

The dim lights snuffed out abruptly and he was left alone in the darkness. 

Then he _felt_ them against his side, twisting, slick as they brushed against him, moving in rhythmic pulses. 

There was the sense of increasing pressure. He struggled against the touch, which became stronger, holding him in place. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t yell. It was going to crush him. 

And then, abruptly, with a hollow pop, like the physical manifestation of the sound of a 203, the pressure snapped.

  


* * *

  


The thin light in the morning was deceptive. It was cold, he could still see his breath, icy crystals hanging in the still air ahead of him. 

He followed their usual camp routine. He brushed his teeth. He gave himself a bird bath with a baby wipe, clearing away the worst of the grime, wandered out to do his business. The MREs were the most variable part of the routine, not that any of the food was actually exciting. 

He got another pack of Charms, because he was truly cursed, and glared at his TL’s head when he was certain he wouldn’t be caught. He took a turn on the MK-19 - they seemed to be down to a 25% watch. Hasser leaned against the passenger side wheel, writing a letter rather than trying to sleep. He hadn’t gone back to sleep after that first watch. Not that Trombley had been watching him. 

Trombley started paying attention again when Fick grabbed their spare fuel canisters, moving between the vehicles with ruthless efficiency. “Sergeant Espera’s vehicle is lightest,” the Lieutenant was saying. “I’m going to send his team back to where we last had contact.” 

“Sir, we should send at least two vehicles.” Colbert murmured back, either trying to keep the rest of the team out of the conversation or finding an excuse to stand close to the Lieutenant. 

“If we had the fuel to spare that would be ideal. We’ll make do. I’m sure they’ll get us our fuel drop ASAP, but until then, we need to make contact with command. Communication is essential.”

Gunny Wynn added something, but the wind stole his soft Texas drawl and Trombley didn’t particularly want to move closer. It wasn’t his business until they told him to do something. 

From his perch in the turret, Trombley looked over and watched the next cammie tent over collapse. Figured. Someone else got to do something and he was still stuck sitting here. 

The engine on Espera’s vehicle made a choked sound. Two more gasping rattles and it finally took, grumbling away. The speed wasn’t high enough to form a rooster tail, but a low cloud of dust spread out from the tires as Espera’s team headed over the hill. 

Trombley tucked his Charms into his pocket. What Sergeant Colbert didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  


* * *

  


Hitman Two-One-Bravo returned a few hours later. Trombley dozed in the shade, not fussed enough to get up. When he did manage to snatch a few moments of sleep, the same sensation of stumbling into the unknowable dark came with it. In his dream, he had become certain that another step forward would tangle human corpses around his angles. The knowledge slowed his movements. Reality and the dream blended for a few moments, making the world shift. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear them.

A knot of marines had already gathered around the returned truck. No new orders materialized. Trombley idly watched them stretch out the cammie nets to hide the silhouette of the Humvee yet again. 

He guessed that was as much of an answer as any. No luck.

  


* * *

  


There were other things to worry about. 

The dark line of an approaching storm front blurred the desert horizon. Hasser watched it from the top of the vehicle. Drawing on knowledge of the prairie storms he’d grown up with, Lovell estimated the approach, counting down in blocks of ten minutes. they’d quickly set to weatherproofing the vehicles as much as possible. 

They drew the vehicles together, closest to Two-Three, because that one didn’t start. Some of the men were lashing extra canvas around the back of the CP, hoping for a shelter. The winds had started to kick up, and the men pulled bandannas up over their mouths and their goggles down as they worked.

  


* * *

  


Trombley watched the incoming storm, his mouth slightly open. It had shifted from a line to something far more intimidating. It was huge, bigger than any that they’d driven through before. It was almost a wave sweeping towards them, and where the horizon should have been was just darkness stretching, despite the afternoon light in the other direction. To clear space in the interior they’d moved some of their gear into a deep pit, driving the Humvee carefully over the cache to protect it. 

“In you go, kiddos,” the Sergeant indicated the most sheltered area of the vehicle, “if you’re good maybe Ray-Ray will read you a bedtime story.” Sergeant Colbert’s voice was mocking, sickly-sweet, but there was a tension to it that maybe wasn’t entirely caused by the weather. 

Trombley reluctantly turned from the wall of sand and to the hatch of the Humvee. Their spread camping mats didn’t really make it any more welcoming. Trombley knew that underneath the contempt the Sergeant was looking out for them, trying to keep them all out of the worst of the storm, but he still bristled, even as he climbed into what had been their trunk. 

The interior steadily darkened. The light that came in through the windshield was growing sickly and faint. “Remember, no hanky-panky in the backseat,” Person chimed in, taping another layer of MRE-box cardboard over the open window. 

Trombley clenched his jaw, anger finally bubbling up in a red haze.

Before Trombley could lash out, Hasser spoke up. “I thought paradise was by the dashboard lights, Ray.” 

‘Touché, Walt,” Sergeant Colbert drawled and Trombley jealously wondered how long it had taken Hasser to earn the use of his first name. The tension bled away, and Trombley’s chest unclenched a little, finally allowing him to breathe again.

“Might be the most uninterrupted sleep we’ll all get out here. Try to make the most of it.” Trombley could see Sergeant Colbert’s point. After all, no point in keeping watch when you couldn’t see. And it wasn’t like anything out there was moving. 

Sergeant Colbert stretched in his seat, one leg half up against the dash as he slouched. He stopped moving, maybe asleep, maybe not. 

The all waited for the storm to hit. 

The sand rattled against the armor of the Humvee. Occasionally a heavier ding echoed through the metal, larger pieces of debris picked up by the sandstorm and slammed into the side. 

The MREs they’d kept with them kept their sharp edges, digging into tender spots as he shifted. His grave was actually more comfortable; at least in that he could spread out. 

“Feels like camping in a rainstorm,” Walt whispered, and Trombley was abruptly aware of how close they were. Maybe it would have been better to stay in the backseat, even though he could hear Corporal Person and Sergeant Colbert fighting with the sand that was tearing through their defenses.

If Trombley closed his eyes, ignored the stale smell of old sweat and machinery, maybe Walt was right. But the vehicle felt so cramped, the metal too close. 

“Is it true that in SERE they lock you in like a coffin?” Trombley asked. 

Hasser blew out a long breath before replying. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Something like that.” Trombley listened to him shift beside him, realizing in the ensuing silence that he’d said the wrong thing again. He wondered if SERE had been hard for Hasser. He wondered what Hasser feared. 

If he were in the dark with anyone else, he’d pick at the fragility he heard in the silence, to try to show that he was just as tough — if not more — even without passing the BRC. Were you scared? He could put as much contempt into the words as Colbert could. Was Hasser scared now? He touched his tongue to the back of his front teeth and tried to retrace the conversational steps.

“Did you do a lot of camping?”

“I guess.” 

The possibility of easy chatting was gone. Trombley felt a twinge of something that was almost regret. Walt turned towards the wall, putting his back to Trombley. 

Trombley wasn’t sure why he noticed that. It wasn’t as if they could see much in the dark, anyway. 

He wondered if he would feel anything if they locked him in a small box, or if it’d be just like this: numb to everything except the annoyance and irritations. 

It wasn’t like he was claustrophobic.

Trombley shifted, unsure if he should apologize. 

From the front of the vehicle, he listened to Sergeant Colbert and Corporal Person debating something in low voices. He heard the skitter of sand falling in, listened to the older men swear softly, the ripping sound of the tape as they patched what they could. The gunner’s hatch gave them the most trouble and the wind tore inside with gusty rattles, disrupting their attempts to actually get some restful sleep.

  


* * *

  


He walked down the staircase again. 

There was a deeper presence in the room around him. A rhythmic pulsing seemed to fill the air, altering the pressure, making it hard to breathe at times. 

The block was darker now. Trombley walked closer to it. The luminescence hid the color, but the tackiness underfoot made him uneasily certain that he knew what the stain was.

  


* * *

  


Trombley jerked awake, hands instinctively curling around his SAW. 

“Sorry,” Walt whispered. There was a dull pain in Trombley’s leg. He reached down, hit his hand on the ceiling of the trunk and cursed. 

“What the fuck,” he whispered, more to himself than to Walt. 

“Bad dream…” Walt muttered in explanation. “Fuck this place.”

Trombley listened to Walt turn over, endured the press of limbs as they sorted out a new way to sleep. The sand was still blowing outside. He tilted his head back. Sergeant Colbert was illuminated by the blue light of his dead tracker as he typed, the radio horn tucked into his vest and silent. Corporal Person was jammed in the backseat, grinding his teeth in a restless sleep.

  


* * *

  


Although the sandstorm had abated by the time the sun rose, no one in their team was in a better mood for having slept. 

Everyone sported dark circles under their eyes. Sergeant Colbert rummaged through the MREs. “Breakfast is served,” he said, the words falsely cheerful, before heading out to one of the other Humvee-shaped lumps. 

It was a relief to sit out in the fresh air. Trombley reluctantly tore his MRE open, following the motions out of a sense of routine rather than necessity. A lingering memory of twisting, slick forms made the chicken tetrazzini even more unappetizing than usual.

Walt made a disappointed noise. “Catch,” he said, and lobbed a packet over at Trombley.

Trombley caught it. Peanut butter. He shrugged, tossed over the jam he’d gotten to make the trade fair. He paused before he started to tear the peanut butter open. 

“Will it, like, kill you if I eat it now?” Trombley asked. 

Walt shrugged. “Not if you don’t try to kiss me.” Walt flashed his crooked smile. Heat and anger and denial flared in Trombley’s guts, and he ended up dropping the peanut butter into his own MRE package, his appetite gone.

  


* * *

  


The evening light fell, slanting golden shadows across the ground. 

Sergeant Colbert came back from the team leader’s meeting with a new energy in his step. Trombley perked up too, seeing that. Something was happening. Finally. 

Trombley watched.

“Sit tight kids, daddy’s going to check out the target.”

Trombley perked up. “What’s happening, Sarge?”

Sergeant Colbert didn’t interrupt his routine, checking his M4, his cartridges, his water. He looked prepared for anything. “The shamal uncovered something out there.” Despite the bags under his eyes, his gaze was sharp and as quick as ever. “I want someone on the MK-19 at all times today. Get it cleaned and lubed stat. The weapons are your priority, but then get this victor back in running condition - get the air filters and intakes cleared. I want her purring and ready to run by the time I get back.”

He should be used to the disappointment by now. Trombley pulled his gaiter higher up on his neck and narrowed his eyes as his team leader walked away. The Sergeant got to run a treasure hunt and all Trombley got was the pain of dealing with endless fucking sand in their gear.

  


* * *

  


“What do you see out there, Sarge?” Trombley asked when the recon team returned. 

Sergeant Colbert unhooked his helmet and threw it to the side. The sweat and dust made his face look chalky pale, even with the hint of wind and sunburn. The faint imprint of his gas mask seal cut into the edges of his cheeks. They must have been out there in full gear. 

Trombley suddenly less annoyed at having to stay behind. 

“A buried structure of some sort. Strange material. Pale. Looks to be porous, not concrete. Chem strips didn’t detect anything dangerous in the samples.” Sergeant Colbert rummaged in the back of the van.

Trombley went to stand next to the Sergeant. “Was there an opening in it?” he asked. “With a staircase?”

Colbert’s pale eyes immediately seemed to stare through Trombley. Trombley held his ground, unsure of the reason behind the assessment. “It was a solid structure from what we could tell. Not much of it was uncovered though. There’s the possibility that some sort of entrance may still be buried.” 

Trombley decided he’d be better off finding something else to do. Removing all the sand from their victor was better than volunteering to dig. He didn’t think they’d like what they found.

  


* * *

  


“Doc’s missing.”

“What the fuck?” Corporal Person managed to say what they were all thinking. 

“What do you mean, missing?” 

“Wasn’t present this morning, Ray.” Sergeant Colbert’s voice sounded testy. 

“Where the fuck did he go, though? We’re in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. I can’t even get far enough away to keep you from staring longingly at my dick when I take a piss.”

Ignoring the front-seat homoeroticism, Trombley joined Walt on the top of the victor and took a turn with the binoculars. The landscape was dusty and windblown, and he guessed if someone wanted to hide, they could, but they’d be stuck behind clumps of near-dead scrub or rock. There wasn’t anything else out there. 

More marines gathered around their victor. No one was bothering to keep their voices down anymore.

“What would you say visibility is at? Three klicks? Two?”

“With this haze…? Wouldn’t bet on it. Maybe for a vehicle. Not to try to sight one dude in camo.”

Trombley shared a glance with Walt, who looked drawn and worried. 

“What about footprints?”

There was a sarcastic snort, someone muttered something about recon marines under their breath. “Naw, man, just looks like he up and vanished.”

“Who know what goes on in that angry motherfucker’s head? He’s probably trying to make some sorta bullshit point.”

“How does going AWOL make a point?”

“Do you want to be fucking around out of range of command with no orders and no resupply?”

“Tim’s no idiot. This is fucked up, man.”

“Gentlemen, keep an eye out.”

“What about search parties?”

The Lieutenant nodded. “Gunnery Sergeant Wynn will be organizing search parties. I want teams on watch.”

Fick’s sharp gaze flashed between the members of Team One Alpha, making sure they all were paying attention. 

“There’ll be a buddy system until further notice. No one is to leave line of sight. Until we find Doc Bryan, I want eyes on everyone.”

Person leaned over. “What about during combat jacks, sir?” he added a worried tone, breaking the tension in his typically ridiculous manner. 

Trombley choked his giggle down. 

“Ray—” Colbert sounded threatening, but it wasn’t a threat with teeth, more because he was expected to say something when their platoon commander was standing right there. 

“Corporal Person,” the Lieutenant said, “We are not in combat and what you do while you are not on watch is your own choice.” This time, he stared very determinedly at a point over the Humvee’s hood, not meeting eyes. “That said, the buddy system will remain in place at all times. You and your partner can choose how to operate within the guidelines. Go without, or make do, Corporal. I don’t want anyone out of eyesight of the platoon.”

“Did anyone check—” Christeson trailed off and jerked his chin towards the target. The pale edge of the structure caught the light in an eerie way. 

The Lieutenant nodded. “There is no visible opening in the structure.”

Trombley wondered why Christeson had asked that, if maybe Christeson had had the same dream. It was an idle curiosity. It was just that he was sure, that if they did find an opening, it would lead to a narrow, steep staircase, dropping deep into the bowels of the earth, and an empty chamber that was somehow full of ghostly, twisting forms, there and yet not, just waiting.

He was sure of this.

  


* * *

  


They dug out new, wider graves; the shamal had erased their previous work. From the corner of his eye, the patchy shadows cast by the netting shifted like a mass of insects spreading over the rocky ground. 

“I’m gonna try to nap,” Walt said. There wasn’t much else to do, they might as well try to get some sleep. The search parties had come back empty handed, and the mid-day sun was getting to blistering levels.

Trombley nodded. He took another drink of water, trying not to wince at the taste. It seemed off. It wasn’t the usual plastic overtone from his canteen though. He wondered if there was any of the bottled water left. 

The heat was incredible, and even the shade and coolness of the exposed dirt didn’t counter it. He laid out next to Walt. 

“Wake me if you need to leave,” Walt muttered, already slipping into sleep, his speech starting to slur with exhaustion.

Trombley bit back a harsh reply about their orders. Trombley lay down next to him, back to back. The thin foam underneath him didn’t do much against the rocks. There wasn’t much extra room; maybe later he’d widen the grave to give them more space. 

Then again, maybe he wouldn’t. He listened to Walt breathe, felt his reassuring presence beside him. It wasn’t as cramped as the Humvee hatch. He must have been more exhausted than he thought because he dropped off quickly.

  


* * *

  


The light had taken on a decidedly red glow. It took Trombley a moment to realize that this was the same dream. The cavern didn’t have the spacious feeling anymore; as if something had filled it in, pressing in around him.

The walls glistened, quivering in an uncomfortable way. They were closer now, and in the low light Trombley could see faint striations in the surface. Like wet, exposed muscle. Like a fresh wound. 

He decided not to touch the wall. He didn’t want to know if it was warm.

Everything had taken on a crimson sheen. The air was impossibly wet and thick, it took effort to breathe, like he was 30 m underwater during dive training. This place put the same pressure on his lungs. The sharp pain of dry skin cracking in the desert air would be preferable to this; staying here much longer would be a slow strangulation. 

The lights still played in eerie glimmers towards the altar. It was like a held breath, the moment before a jump. 

The potential. 

The unknown.

  


* * *

  


He climbed up onto the Humvee and crouched next to the turret as Walt lifted himself up to follow. Trombley stared at the visible corner of the structure. The night pressed down all around them, suffocating the lights. He and Walt had watch. The buddy system had shifted the typical balance in their vehicle. Sergeant Colbert had said that he didn’t want to inflict Ray on anyone else. 

He sat cross-legged. The starlight was thin, not quite enough. If he stared hard enough at the target, he thought he could see it glow, like a faint and evil miasma escaping from it. But that was foolish. 

Walt stared at it too. “Think we’re defending it from the enemy? Or should we be pointing the guns in on it?”

Trombley shrugged.

Walt managed a pale imitation of his usual smile. “I wish we knew.”

  


* * *

  


“Get up.” Sergeant Colbert’s words were curt and cut-off, his voice going more nasal with stress. His hand on Trombley’s shoulder was gentle, though, and Trombley blinked away the last remnants of sleep. “Pack up, get in the victor.”

Walt was also sitting up, rubbing at his eyes. The dark circles seemed deeper than yesterday. 

“What’s happening?” Trombley asked, dutifully getting his feet underneath his tired body. He blinked away the lingering clutches of sleep and set to work rolling the nets back up alongside the Sergeant.

Sergeant Colbert didn’t answer immediately. When Trombley glanced over, the Sergeant seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. 

“The rest of Team Three is gone,” Colbert finally said. 

“Wasn’t the buddy system supposed to prevent that?” Trombley asked. 

There was sharp impatience in Colbert’s glance. Trombley held it. He had just been curious. It was a fair question, wasn’t it?

The Sergeant finished tightening the strap. “Pack up,” he repeated his earlier order. “We are oscar mike in five.”

  


* * *

  


They didn’t go anywhere.

None of the Humvees would start. 

Trombley wandered. Team Two Three’s Humvee had large patches of rust, the new paint flaking and bubbling up. The absence of Corporal Carisalez and Sergeant Patrick was painfully apparent when they tried to determine what was wrong. They all had some knowledge of mechanics, but not enough. Not nearly enough to come up with any explanation for the rot that was spreading through the rubber, for the thin and fragile metal crumbling under the hoods. 

“There’ll be a supply drop soon,” the Lieutenant assured them, his eyes distant and worried.

  


* * *

  


Something had changed.

When he woke, he stayed where he was. Walt was pressed against his side. If Walt had managed to sleep, Trombley didn’t want to wake him until he was forced to. They had a watch shift later. One of them getting some sleep now was better than neither of them. 

He heard footsteps coming from up the hill. Neither of the men on watch reacted, so Trombley didn’t bother getting up. 

“Get your e-tools. Follow me.” It was the Lieutenant’s voice.

Trombley dragged himself up. He looked to where Colbert and Person had been keeping watch. They moved stiffly. The Lieutenant was grave-faced. And he was standing there alone. Trombley’s attention honed in on that. The Gunnery Sergeant had been Lieutenant Fick’s shadow even before the buddy system had been put in place. 

He elbowed Hasser. “Didn’t we have to stay with our buddy?” Trombley asked, maybe a little too loudly. He had just wanted to see if the SOP had changed, but from the Lieutenant’s sharp and warning glare, he realized it might have seemed snide. 

He didn’t get an answer. 

He made his way out from underneath the netting his folded shovel banging against his hip. The sky above had the sick tones of an oil spill, the blue faintly off, as if that had somehow rotted away too. 

Walt walked too close to Trombley, but Trombley didn’t have the heart to even snap at him for it. He endured the dull impacts of Walt’s shoulder from time to time. At least he didn’t have to look up to make sure his buddy was with him. 

When the team assembled for the walk out to dig around the structure, they were far short of the expected number.

  


* * *

  


Trombley thought of training exercises when people had been tapped to act something out. Lilley’s ‘death’ during the live fire exercise. Leon feigning unconsciousness during a scuba recon exercise, just hanging silently in the water column, waiting to see if there was an appropriate reaction from the rest of the team. It felt like that again. 

This was some sort of twisted drill. 

The others would be waiting for them… somewhere. 

This had to be a drill. 

It had to be.

  


* * *

  


Trombley dug. When he wasn’t glaring at the hard-packed dirt and rocks, he took quick glances over at Walt, watching the way Walt clenched his jaw. 

“We need to get out of here,” Walt said, under his breath when they stopped to mop the sweat from their grips, from their faces. 

Someone else might have known what to say to that. Walt looked tired; wrung-out. Trombley figured that most people would agree with Walt. He didn’t know how to put it into words though. He wasn’t a coward, didn’t really care one way or another. Maybe that was why the rest of the men had left; the feeling that surrounded the structure. 

Trombley forced himself to swallow a few sips of water. His throat felt like it could peel it was so dry, but the slimy aftertaste made him want to dump the rest of his canteen. Had he complained about the taste of plastic before?

They managed to uncover another few feet of the structure, but no entrance way appeared. There was no reason to think that it was related to his dream. 

And yet…

  


* * *

  


The Lieutenant stopped offering reassurances about the resupply. Trombley had wandered around the temporary encampment earlier. None of the gas tanks sounded full. Nearly all their water was gone. 

When he tore open the pouch of his MRE, the damn thing had gone off. A gray crust flaked away from the edges. He looked at it suspiciously. He checked the date stamped on the packaging; the thing was supposed to be good until 2030. 

Trombley decided it was too hot to be hungry, anyway. 

In places, the dull porous surface of the structure turned opalescent. It was the only change they saw. They didn’t uncover any openings. Another fucking waste of time. 

Exhausted and hungry, Trombley barely managed to confirm someone else was on watch before dropping into his grave.

  


* * *

  


He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or hallucinating. At this point, everything sort of blurred. Trombley was too exhausted to fight it. The blurring became a nauseating double-vision, reality-and-not. Beside him, Walt twitched in his sleep, and it was enough to half wake Trombley again. There was a sensation like an elastic being stretched behind his eyes, and most of the double vision vanished, snapping clearly into the now-familiar desert vistas. But an imprint was left behind, an aura shimmered in the air around Walt, blurring his familiar features. A rhythmic thrumming reached Trombley, a vibration that was set inside his bones. Like something coming from deep within the earth. 

Walt sat up. He left his gun, and that’s when Trombley knew that this was a dream, too. Walt wouldn’t do that. 

He had always been alone in his dreams. Not this time. 

Trombley resigned himself to dream logic. He took up his own SAW and ammo. The sense of threat around him had intensified, even here he didn’t want to be without a weapon, no matter how heavy it was, how much it dragged.

The sky above them was eerily green, with smudges across the sky. Like the northern lights that he’d sometimes seen camping in northern Michigan, but moving faster, almost like moonlight through water. From the bottom of the lake. 

But there was no water here. 

Trombley hurried to catch up to Walt. Trombley shook his shoulder. Walt stumbled a little, but didn’t falter. “Hey,” Trombley hissed. Walt turned slightly towards him. In the green light, Trombley could see that Walt’s pupils were gone. A faint glow seemed to emit from his eyes, forming a blind white film.

Trombley jerked back, caught off-guard. 

Walt broke away from him continued moving towards the structure. 

Trombley hurried after him, but he moved too fast. Like the others, they left no footprints in the dusty sand. In the manner of dreams, he chased, and the air itself seemed to fight his progress. He couldn’t get rid of the sense that he’d never catch up. He needed to, though. He knew that. 

He pressed on.

The vibration was growing stronger. It was sounding almost like a heartbeat now. Double thumps. A chambered heart. Something too large to understand, something that was all around them, and yet not.

In the manner of dreams he was suddenly in the chamber again, facing the altar. The pale arches were completely covered in organic growth, and the wet, red light pressed close around him, warm and thick and suffocating.

This time, he could see the bodies sitting behind the altar. All with the same glowing eyes. All there and not quite there with that same double-vision as before. 

And Walt was on the altar. 

The lights weren’t moving any more. They’d gathered underneath Walt. It created a glow, a halo better suited for angels in his grandmother’s church than for Walt. Dread grew in his chest. Walt wasn’t moving. His unseeing, glowing eyes looked upwards. 

If it had been any other body, he might have felt a dull sort of fascination.

This was different. 

This was _Walt_. 

It broke through his ennui, made him consider trying to do something in this twisted dreamworld rather than just watching.

Trombley braced his feet on the ground, as if he could press back against the formless, ghostly _things_ that crowded the air around him, twisting and slithering, leaving a slimy feeling against his skin. 

“Enough,” Trombley said, his voice breaking through the silence of the structure for the first time. He braced his feet.

The air seemed to thicken ahead of him. 

Trombley grimaced. There was nothing there, he told himself. Nothing. He gathered Walt’s unresisting form into his arms. He was going to get Walt out of there. His eyes slid to the other bodies, sitting lifelessly behind the altar. He was going to get Walt out of there and then he was going to come back. 

Whatever this creature was, it couldn’t have Walt. 

He took a shaky step towards the back wall, where the staircase had been. Even here his body was weak with hunger. Walt’s weight made each step a struggle.

The pressure in the room changed, assaulting his ear drums with piercing pain.

He took another step. He wasn’t sure if Walt was breathing but he knew with a dead certainty that he needed to get them out of there if Walt was ever going to recover. 

The air ahead seemed to coalesce, becoming opaque and slippery looking. He flinched as he approached it, then put his head down. He didn’t want to look. He held his breath, taking in more of that hot, humid air than he ever wanted to.

Another step.

He could get through this. 

He could feel things in the air, sliding past him. He needed to make it through.

This wasn’t real. 

This was all in his head.

The pressure curled against his forehead with slippery, tightening force, pressing against his skull. And then, it was in his head.

_It was in his head! It was in his head it was in his head in his head in his head — Get it out get it out get it out get it out—_

Trombley fell to his knees, dragging in a ragged breath that kept him from screaming as he let Walt slide to the ground. He clawed at his own temples, feeling something slither behind his skull. 

The pain sharped, gritting and grating and rasping into words he could understand.

_We can wait._

  


* * *

  


“Trombley. Hasser.”

Trombley jerked awake, realizing he was back in his grave, dirt walls filling his vision. Terror still flooded through him, he was choking and he could barely pull in a breath. One breath. Two. His heart pounded against his ribcage as he realized he wasn’t dying. He wasn’t in the temple. One arm was around his SAW, the other was gripping Walt to his body. 

And Colbert was there.

Trombley hastily let go. Walt was starting to stir as well. Maybe he hadn’t noticed. 

Trombley sat up, set his SAW down outside the grave. Sergeant Colbert tossed down two MREs. “Eat, shit, and get ready.” His toothbrush was in the corner of his mouth, and Colbert didn’t seem inclined to stay and chat. Trombley felt shaky with relief when no comment about Walt and him followed. 

There was more activity in their camp than Trombley had seen in days. Corporal Person was starting to roll up the cammie netting. It dragged on top of their graves briefly, then his line of sight cleared. Trombley flinched at a vibration through the ground, but it resolved into a fast rhythmic whumping. The chopper coursed away, low over the desert, stirring up dust. He narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun on the packed earth, a fuel bladder and resupply crates forming new landmarks.

The oily smell of JP-8 already hung in the air, and the carcasses of the Humvees had been revived from their former zombie glory. 

He watched the Humvees. They drove towards the fuel bag. He hadn’t heard engines in a long time, and already the desert was sounding more like a base. Sound discipline seemed to be a thing of the past. Voices that hadn’t been raised past a hushed whisper rang across the flat landscape. Trombley was almost afraid to look. 

“Up and at ’em,” Colbert said, “look alive, boys.” 

Trombley stared a while longer. “Everyone’s back?” he asked, slowly. He looked to Walt, who was giving him a quizzical look. 

Colbert’s low eyebrows knit together. “What do you mean?”

Trombley sat there in stunned silence, unsure of how to react. He glanced away from Colbert’s penetrating gaze, and answered his own question. He mentally tallied numbers, each 

“Make sure you get some of that fresh water,” Colbert said, looking away uneasily. 

He looked over to Walt. “I want Trombley on the MK-19. You get some rest, Walt. You don’t look so good.”

Walt touched his head. He’d usually argue, but this time he didn’t seem to have the need. He’d barely moved from the side of the grave. “Yeah. Sure.”

Everyone was accounted for. 

It didn’t fit his memories. 

He didn’t know what was the best way to ask what anyone else remembered.

  


* * *

  


“What _was_ that?” Trombley asked. He ran his hand over the edge of the Humvee’s frame. It was solid under his fingertips. The last time he’d seen it, the lines of the metal had been crumbling into rusted flakes. This was solid. 

“Who the fuck knows,” Sergeant Colbert said. 

“Waste of our goddamned time,” Person agreed. “Can’t believe they had us drive all the way out here.”

“Hoorah.”

As they pulled away, Trombley turned from his gun sight and looked behind him. The desert was already slipping over the pale structure, burying it underneath the powdery sand yet again. 

He tried to ignore the feeling of something moving inside his skull. He curled his finger around the trigger and tried to shake off what he’d seen. He had work to do. 

_It isn’t time yet._

  


* * *

  



End file.
